"Maota."
"You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll build
a museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill just
outside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we may
decipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long ago
and think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build and
evacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize...."
Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head like
a waving palm frond and stamped his feet.
"You will leave now."
"Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. They
must be preserved. Future generations will thank us."
"Do you mean," the old man asked, aghast, "that you want others to come
here? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those who
lived here may return one day! They must not find their city packaged
and preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe their
foul breaths upon. You will leave. Now!"
"No." Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar.
Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside his
body. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with his
heel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city.
The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pages
rustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, while
Michaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancient
street.
* * * * *
When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs in
the night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. Old
Maota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemed
a more practical place now.
The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, short
hammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a new
determination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted fool
wanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command,
across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek he
remembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the caked
blood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back.
The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had brought
a coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of wind
sighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in the
sand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up.
It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand over
the binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squinted
at the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but the
writing was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over the
writing.
Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands.
"God in heaven!" he exclaimed.
He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down the
length of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. Not
Maota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, he
stooped and picked up the book again.
"Good God!" he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers had
touched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirring
in his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time.
A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall,
fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuring
God-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those already
destroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, the
artistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand.
I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. They
say these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let's
see, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousand
lifetimes.
And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all those
years!
He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discovery
of the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefinger
against the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and entered
the building. He laid the book down and tried to take the "clock"
off the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt along
the wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved over
its smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with an
exclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine.
_The clock was warm._
He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where there
were people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should not
be. Half a million years--and here was warmth!
He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. No
mistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. He
stood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling.
Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason.
He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambled
through the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy street
until he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping for
air, feeling the pain throb in his head.
Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile could
be accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from loss
of blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trail
of important discoveries he had no common sense.
He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment.
* * * * *
When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east.
Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart in
the sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair,
familiar to Michaelson.